


Butterfly

by NaturalAddict



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anorexia, Art, Based on a roleplay, Bisexual Male Character, Bulimia, Catholicism, Eating Disorders, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Vaguely Medieval setting, artist, colours matter, too many details to tag, writing changes with the character's mood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23241091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaturalAddict/pseuds/NaturalAddict
Summary: His life is a long story, but he truly has to wonder if it's one worth telling, if he's worth anything at all.
Relationships: Remy/Eric
Kudos: 1





	1. Memoir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Max Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Max+Moon).



> Dedicated to the roleplay partner I thought I'd lost forever when my brother unplugged the WiFi cable while I was on omegle, and who's still with me writing this wonderful story nearly 4 years later  
> Accurate French provided by Cyvia7, a kind soul who helped a random stranger on the utaite Amino, and who can be found on twitter @Cyvia7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows a wounded heart can't help

Mallory's life is nothing much. He goes to school, comes back, plays with the other boys until he can't anymore. It's enjoyable. It's peaceful.

His mother is a baker, and he always sneaks away treats with his brothers. He eats until he's so full he can hardly move, and then they all lie together in a lazy pile on the old wood of their bedroom floor. 

It's the best food in the world. 

His father is a blacksmith, and business is really good right now, so he gets new toys and clothes and feels less bad about stealing away baked goods that could be making them money.

He doesn't have a last name, like the real important people here, but he doesn't need to be important to Polaris. It's a good country, sure, but for now he'll settle for being a good child. 

There are many things he enjoys, like when his brothers will pose for him and compliment his coal portraits. He thinks they'd look better with colours, so he'll ask for a paint set for his birthday. He wants them to look like how he sees his brothers, but he's not really sure what that means. 

There's one thing he hates, and that's his name. Mallory. Psh. His teacher says it means he'll have a _rough_ life. He had to look up that word on the dictionary. The man had been smiling when he said it, but Mallory doesn't think it's funny at all. 

Mallory's life doesn't last long.

The swords his father made are being used to kill people who want to kill them. He's always thought those swords were the best, but there's more of their own people dying than there are angry foreigners falling down.

Battlefield is ugly and messy, and now, everywhere. His old house was set on fire, and his whole family is living in the basement of the bakery with little to eat. 

His mother still makes the best food in the world, but he doesn't know if that makes him as happy as it did before. 

Polaris is a good country. So why-

There's talk of it being over gold. Mallory's seen gold, it's just bright and kind of yellow, and he's loved staring at the way it glistens, but if it brings this much blood, then he hates it now. Hates it more than his own name. 

The black of his hands is now hardly ever to do with using coal to draw, but Mallory wants to draw beautiful things, and beauty has gone with the soldiers that came in. So it doesn't matter that much. He still wishes he could get paint, because he thinks colours can make anything beautiful. 

Polaris is mostly ash and blood now, at least what he sees of it. 

It's uncertainty and fear. 

When it's his turn to venture out for food, he sees white and blue. There's still red, but it's a pretty one. His stomach twists at the thought of more soldiers, but this man — this knight grabs him and lifts him up and takes him to an alley.

The man beneath the armour asks, "Do you want help?" 

Mallory nods, either slowly or quickly, he can't tell. He's terrified. 

"Canopus has sent us. We were told to get as many we can."

It's clear on his face that Mallory doesn't understand. 

The man tries again. "I can get you out of this hell." 

_Oh._

Mallory doesn't have to look that word up in the dictionary to know what it means.

"My family-"

They weren't many, but... 

His saviour shakes his head. "There's no more space. You're small, so I think you'll fit, but your family..." 

He understands. 

"I can't leave my family." 

A weird sound is produced by the knight's visor being lifted. He has earnest eyes of a pure colour, and it makes Mallory feel more steady on his feet. 

"I can't leave you behind." 

It's confusing. So many people are being left behind. Looking into the man's eyes, though... He understands. 

The boat is cramped, and he can hardly breathe. It holds more people than he's ever seen in one place before, but he's never felt more alone.

He keeps his eyes shut and ignores the pain of being pressed against wood. It's easier to ignore than a lot of other things. His lips move just barely, just so, whispering a prayer to the goddess of the ocean. 

They're attacked. 

The enemy doesn't just want war, they want there to be no one left. 

He's left. Among the people he'll never see again is the kind-eyed knight from Canopus. For some reason, he wishes he had kept his eyes open to have a chance of remembering all the others who were in the boat with him, who will never get to see Canopus at all. 

A rough life, huh? 

He thought he'd died. Like all of them. 

The last thing he remembers is the swirling stillness of being underwater longer than he can hold his breath, but he wakes up to yellow hair. 

Yellow like gold, but lighter and more beautiful. 

When he tries to speak, he coughs. His lungs burn so bad it's like his entire body is on fire. Maybe this is what his house felt like. If houses could feel. 

"What's your name?" 

He's still trying to breathe through the pain, but he knows he's not Mallory anymore, there's no reason he should have to be.

And he says the first thing that comes to his mind, in a dry, weak and strained voice but with a gaze of certainty: "Remy." 

* * *

Life is different here.

There are no brothers to draw, there's no mother or father or treats he can steal or swords he can watch being made. There is gold, but there's no war, and there are colours.

Remy's important to Canopus. Well, his art is. A few years in and he's the royal artist, which means he gets to paint all day, as much as he needs to, and gets paid for it. In gold.

Not that he really needs much money. He's given food and clothes and anything he wants, almost like royalty himself, and he knows it's an apology, but it's still nice.

The young prince who asked his name back then, Charles, had more to say than he was ready to hear at the time, but what he remembers best is the stress put on the words _I'm sorry._

"We can't try again." His voice had been heavier than moments ago, bottom lip trembling.

Remy had been dizzy and weak, and so confused. He coughed, "What?"

"Your home!" Charles despaired, hands thrown up in the air. "I- Convinced my father to help Polaris, but we're under threat of war if we try that again, and I hate to tell you this, but father said I have to since this was my stupid idea, and..." The rapid ramble cut off. Remy's ears were ringing and he wasn't sure he knew as many words as this kid did despite the brevity of their meeting so far. "I want to say," the prince went on, much slower: "I'm sorry. I really wanted to do more. But I'm still glad you're here and safe, even if it's only you."

Even if it could've been much more, Remy heard, even if the words were not said. 

"No war." 

"Mm?" 

His throat stung again. He coughed, shaking his head. "No war. Just me is okay. No war here too." 

A small hand squeezed his, so warm, and he was pushed to lie back down almost before he'd tried to sit up. "Rest." 

He knew the conversation was over, then, and little else. 

The memory still makes him smile when it comes to mind as his pale hand guides a fine brush across a canvas, but he never wishes to see the white of that infirmary room he was stuck in for his first day here ever again.

Remy's own room is all brightness and drawn curtains, light, an invitation to happiness. He practically owns the artist's wing, can walk up and down it like a king. 

He doesn't see much of the king. Or the queen, though he hears so much about her he wishes he did, and when he does see her it's through a window and among flowers in the garden, reading a book to or getting her long tresses braided by the prince, Charles.

Who keeps him company the most is actually the royal couple's firstborn.

"Eric!" 

"How do you _do_ that?" 

Remy smiles to himself, not turning around. "Do what?" 

"You know perfectly well what I mean!" 

He does. "Hmm?" 

"You always see me coming- Jesus, turn around! You always see me coming without looking!"

With a tinkling laugh, he does turn around, brush set down and staining his robes with paint as he tries to pat them clean. His brow raises at the sight of Eric, beaming like the child he is not, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

"I wrote a new one." The prince says proudly. 

Remy holds back his smile and twists his face into a frown of confusion. "A new what?" 

"Stop teasing me, geez! A new poem!"

"Ah, a new poem." Of course a new poem. "Can I ask what what about?"

"You can if you want to." 

Remy laughs again, "See? You always tease back." 

They smile at each other. A moment passes.

"Anyway," Eric makes his way farther into the art room, conscious not to trip over the mess that is the floor. "Come to my room later." He nods towards the incomplete painting. "When you're done."

"Will do." As always. Remy hums, "Want to see _my_ latest finished one?"

Eric is so not subtle with his light-hearted mocking as he asks: "Latest _what_?"

And Remy sighs a hard sigh, clicking his tongue in feigned disapproval. "I get it, I get it, your poems are _aaas_ important as my artwork, you big baby."

"You always do." 

Remy blinks, unsure for what feels like the first time across their many interactions. "Huh?" 

Eric smiles in the way he always does when he's got the upper hand, only softer, and says: "You always get it."

The poem is about flying. It's the most beautiful Eric has ever written. 

"You always say that." Eric pulls the notebook back, stuffing it beneath his pillows and ruffling the bedsheets further in the process. 

Remy unfolds his legs and flops onto his stomach on the comfortable mattress. "It's always true." 

The prince rolls his eyes, "Right." 

So dismissive. 

"I'm not lying." He says, firmer. 

His friend smiles at the compliment in those words.

"Do you think Cha-ly will like this one?" 

Remy laughs, "Who?" 

"Charles! Gee. I-" 

" _I_ don't know if you're too nervous or too sleepy, but you _obviously_ can't speak." 

"Go fall asleep in your own bed, you parasite." He says a lot later, when the painter's eyes are drooping and his are wide open. 

"Eeeh, but yours is so much softer... I bet you'd let _Cha'lie_ sleep in here." Sleepy, but still snarky. If Eric will be mean and kick him out, then he has the leverage to be annoying in return. 

"Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow."

The next time he sees him, it is tomorrow, but it's all different.

"He's gay." 

Eric's hands are being wrung together, the sound of his pacing so loud it disrupts Remy's thoughts. The art room is usually so quiet. 

"Calm d-" 

"He's _gay_." So much contempt resides in that word it clenches the painter's heart and makes him drop his favourite brush.

What's another stain on the floor? His expression is his hidden as he bends down to pick it up, and he doesn't turn to face the prince until after he's set the brush aside with the care it deserves.

"Eric."

"My own brother. _I knew it_. I tried to stop it, to... To help him, I- don't understand."

Eric's eyes are blue like the sky, and they're spilling over with the rain of pain. 

Remy leans closer to wipe the tears with his left hand, his clean hand. The hand closest to his heart.

"I can try to help you understand." Is what he says, instead of asking why that is so bad; he has a feeling he knows. The gods of Polaris aren't here and, to many, this country's God would never approve of a man who loves another man.

The gods of Polaris didn't protect it. Or Mallory's family. Or Remy's life. 

Canopus is all that a kingdom needs to be, and Remy trusts the God here, but he thinks that many are wrong. Eric clearly doesn't. He's one of those many. It makes the painter's lungs struggle for air almost as though surrounded by water. 

"Why?" 

_Because I'm in love with you. I **need** you to understand. _

"Because I'm a good friend." He exhales, hand damp with Eric's distress when he lowers it, chin tilted up almost in defiance though the next sentence comes out much softer: "And because I am gay too."

The prince's cerulean eyes widen.

What's in them now? Not tears. Not disgust. Remy moves in for a kiss.

The light touch of their lips is everything their friendship isn't, a lie that won't be seen for the truth it is. 

Won't be seen by eyes that are closed now, as long fingers weave into Remy's short reddish orange hair and pull him in closer. 

Desperation is all over Eric's movements, but as he's said, Remy always gets it — the firstborn prince is frantic not for the same thing his kissing partner is, but to understand his brother.

It feels good. Remy's eyes close too. 

They're desperate for different things, sure, but it manifests in the same way. 

Eric's hand is on his thigh, sliding up through the opening of his robe, caressing bare skin as his lips nip Remy's neck, up towards his ear, where he whispers: "I think I get it." 

Remy is so hard. 

What's between his legs isn't what the prince is used to finding in his lovers, but he sure knows how to handle it. 

There's no silence now. The art room is filled with pleasure, with 

"Haa-Please, please, _ahnn_ , _Eric_ -"

It stops. 

Remy looks up, longing, from where he is bent across his hard working table, was melted onto the _rough_ surface and being undone by Eric's perfect strokes until a second ago.

"Why...?" He pants the words past being recognisable, swallows, tries again, "Why did you st-"

"Turn around." 

He's not got much expertise there. 

_How desperate?_

The blue of Eric's eyes has darkened, he notes the second before he complies, and before Remy's love bleeds a dark red.

Love hurts, yes, but not as much as the lack of it. 

The thrusts are entirely self-serving, unmindful of how they make Remy's body knock into the table at times in ways that are sure to leave bruises on his ghostly skin, and it's a while before he can find pleasure in them. 

Though when the pleasure does come, it's all he could have asked for but hasn't. 

"Eric," he's moaning again. "Eric, Eric _Eric_ -"

As out of control of the sounds he makes as a record not properly cared for and played one too many times, he repeats the cry over and over, louder than any sounds the prince can make.

And Eric is making noise, is enjoying it too.

He just never says Remy's name. 

After he reaches completion from overstimulation even without the poet's fingers back around him, the stimuli go from enjoyable to torturous, and he thinks his relief is greater when it's over for Eric than when it is over for him.

The mess that's been made of Remy is Remy's to deal with, of course. The aftereffects of the heated experience include a notable iciness that even numbs the fingers that do back his robes.

"I understand." Eric says. 

He's more put-together than Remy, the painter notes, clothes already in place, but his face is flushed from effort and his eyes are blown from leftover lust, yellow-golden hair sticking to the frown on his forehead. 

His mouth is opening and closing rapidly. 

"You understand." Remy interrupts his visible overthinking. _But you don't get it._

"I don't," Eric cries, immediately and with the strongest hint of frustration. "It felt good, maybe even better than with a girl, but..."

"That was my first time." So he's got nothing with which to compare.

A nod from the price, "Sure, but if you fucked a woman-" 

"I wouldn't." 

"But you could." 

Remy's fingers drop from where they've been trying to redo much too complicated ties, and he stops trying to be completely steady on his wekaned legs.

"I don't think I could." 

Arms folded, Eric huffs, "I did it with you." 

"You did." 

"Would Charles ever even try with a woman to see how it feels?" 

"It's not about trying, we can't want-"

Too fast, Eric emphasises, " _Sinning._ Feels good. I can see that," and he looks at Remy, says: "If I can give it up knowing that, then so can he. That's our duty as God's children."

Our duty. _Our._ Remy's always a part of Eric's "we."

"I didn't choose..." Any of this, almost anything at all.

"You're lying."

"I don't lie." Remy swallows, _I would never lie to you._

That's a lie.

"Yes you do." Then, he uses Remy's deepest secret and deepest truth against him, and calls him " _Mallory_." with all the scorn Remy has ever felt for that name, intensified beyond recognition. There is a pause before he goes on, patting his hands together as though to relieve them from dust. "I must go to confession." 

God is merciful.

He saved Remy from being Mallory, but what for? 

Eric is gone. The painter lingers in his art room until the bell for dinner sounds, legs shaking and heartbeats faltering. It rings so softly it reminds him of the light giggles from the first boy he ever kissed, back in the dusty playground and at a time when being good only took as much effort as studying up to get good marks, not staying out playing too late, not eating too many sweet treats to give them money problems, and finishing all his bitter vegetables.

For the first time since he got to Canopus, the royal artist cries.

It's over for them. Remy and Eric never see each other again, not ever in the same way, and the end is not the slightest bit as sweet as it is bitter. 

* * *

It's different with Charles. They've never been as compatible, clicked as easily, but Charles is gentler and more caring, more selfless and they have at least one thing in common (really, they have more).

They can't choose to lie with women (they've been hurt for it by a person they thought they would never be hurt by).

Remy's crying is now a constant. His eyes are tinted red with the love that still lingers. They burn and sting like lungs without air. 

The prince-who-is-the-second-son just happens to see that from his spot nestled against cold stone walls, doing his own crying. And Charles reaches out.

"Our mother's dead." 

That _our_ doesn't include Remy, but it feels almost as if it could.

"I'm not mourning Isadora." The painter sniffles, "But she was a great queen."

He is met with the saddest smile he has ever seen. "I know."

"You're not mourning her either." 

Charles shifts to stand up. "My brother hates me." And he falters, has to catch himself against the hard wall. "I can't go to him because he hates..." This prince doesn't continue, but Remy knows very well what the other one hates. "I want to be someone else." There's that desperation. Unlike before, it matches his own perfectly. "Anyone else." 

Remy gets that. He wasn't always who he is today, and he had happiness for that long while which ended in a brief moment. If he's done it once... "I'm gonna teach you how."

The question that comes is unexpected. "Why?" 

To Remy, the pain in that question is enough of an answer. He shakes his head as though he doesn't have one. 

Their friendship doesn't just have a rough start.

If things with Eric were a smooth ride, then with Charles the carriage tipped over into a lake and water's coming in. They're trapped in it. Like Isadora was. There's only so much time they have to try and get out before they drown. 

Remy's survived the ocean, but unlike then, he's scared now.

"Try it." 

Isadora's body is under the soil, but Charles' and Remy's are above it, sat over a rough blanket that still allows for the prickle of grass blades to their palms, under the bright sun and just by the same lake that had been the queen's demise.

Charles is holding a specially made sandwich, looking at it with hesitation and pain. "I can't." 

"Just try." 

The prince sighs. 

Remy echoes. They've had this conversation one too many times. He picks up a supple apple form the half-full basket, looks at it, tosses it up in the air, catches it, and then uses all his might to throw it into the river.

The splash is so big droplets fall onto the precious sandwich, and the Eric-yellow hair falls from Charles' grey eyes as he looks at Remy with horror.

"I don't get it." 

Of course he doesn't. That's Remy's job.

"Have you ever noticed how good it feels when you don't eat?" Before Charles can express his lack of understanding again, Remy tells him: "You will." 

He has, through an unfortunate incident. He always used to eat with Eric, and without his friend, the thought of food is as painful as everything else. Oddly enough, his body's craving for fuel, when ignored long enough, numbs the longing in his heart, which is good. Neither Remy nor Charles need to suffer. 

"But it's my favourite." The prince whines. "I'm not sure I..." 

"For God's sake, just _listen_." Remy knows what he's talking about. Why can't the idiot prince see that? The artist's lighter-than-Charles' grey eyes turn towards the bright blue sky to illustrate his frustration. "L'apprentissage de la vie consiste à transformer les doutes en certitudes." He huffs, word after word in an indignant rush.

He is met with more confusion. "What. Is _that_?"

"A language." He replies promptly, cheekily. "French."

"You speak English." Charles points out.

"I speak English _and_ French." Remy points out. "Everyone in Polaris did." Though one more than the other. "Mum always used it to scold me."

Did. Used.

The reminisce is interrupted by a sharp, "You're _scolding_ me for not throwing my sandwich in the bloody river?"

"She always scolded me to _teach_ me something."

Charles' already dark eyes become even cloudier. "You're not my mother."

"What I said," he tries again, "Is that learning about life is about turning doubts into uncertainties."

At least that, Charles can try to understand.

He takes a bite of the sandwich, chews fast, swallows, and then gingerly throws it into the lake. 

"It's so hard." He mellows, shoulders slumped, as he says: "I wish Killian were here." 

"Your guard?" The knight who was always with Charles while Eric was always with Remy. Now both are absent, and the two are left alone together. 

Charles blushes. "The love of my life." 

Remy nods, "Shame he'll never know."

Charles nods too, "I need him now." Needs him always. "There's war everywhere." Even if not here, it called Killian off at the time when he was most in need of protection. Again, he says, "It's so hard." 

Remy took it all in in silence, then carefully said, as he remembered being told, though under very different circumstances: "Ne priez pas pour une vie facile, priez pour avoir la force d'endurer la difficulté." 

This time the French gets a sad smile; Remy reaches for Charles' hand, squeezes it, and then stops the words he doesn't know how to say with a firm press of lips against sad lips. It's not love. It's compassion. And he hopes that it will not bleed. 

He translates: "Do not pray for an easy life, pray for the strength to endure the difficulty." 

Remy had prayed to different gods, then, but he feels lighter when Charles says, "I need to go to confession."

He looks down at the picnic basket, takes out a pot of strawberries, fresh and plump, and begins letting then each be taken by the waters, fingers gentle with the fruit as though he's afraid of it. "After this." He tells the prince without looking back at him.

Charles hums distractedly, then shrieks: "Careful! That's my favourite pot!" 

* * *

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Remy's voice sounds broken, as broken as he feels, as he can never let Cha'lie hear it, because he knows all too well that _coeur blessé ne se peut aider._

 _"_ What can I help you with, my son?"

He knows a wounded heart can't help.

"I like men." He says, almost cries. "But, Father, I can't see that as a sin. God has made us many — I can't understand how he could love us all, and give some such peril. I can understand war," better than he wished anyone ever had to "but... I can see how that's caused by men. I don't think being gay is my fault, so it can only have been God, right?" Wrong, according to Eric. To his best friend, his first love, first so many things he had wanted to last. "I didn't choose this, Father, I didn't choose it at all."

At the end of his breakdown, he is made suddenly thankful for the lack of interruption as he hears the calm, patient response: "Trust in God, my son. He would not hurt you." 

So, the truth is... "I haven't sinned?" He wipes his tears thoughtlessly, almost getting paint in his eyes. 

"Not for giving in to instincts, I don't believe you have." 

The words are simple, but their warmth lingers. He can't express his gratitude no matter how how many times he echoes his whispered _thank you._

He is told he should be thankful only to the Lord, and in a sour way, Remy agrees.

Days stretch on leisurely after that. 

Lying together, the prince and the artist listen to the sounds of weakening bodies crying out for food. 

Remy is smaller. He's done this longer. He's the teacher. And he's aware that Charles likes his body already, but the royal can't help but notice the changes. 

"I think you look fat." He says, one evening, after Charles has had far too much to eat.

"What?" 

Charles has never heard that before. Well, no matter. Remy will be the first one to say it.

"Le salut est gratuit," he says, holding up and a hand and smiling at the pout Charles always shows him at there mention of a word in a foreign language. "Mais l'apprentissage exigera votre existence toute entière." 

The prince waits, and Remy snaps his paint-water dyed fingers. 

"Salvation is free, Cha'lie." He repeats, voicing it in the same worn tone his mother had used, adding a sigh for effect: "But learning — will require your whole existence.

Charles looks back at him and says, "I want to learn."

Of course he does. 

Because Remy can't have a wounded heart, he always seems to hold all the answers. 

He is hurt, but not hurting. When he's with Charles, all of it is put on pause. He's not thinking, he's doing, and saying, and he is teaching. 

"Let me sketch you. All of you." He gestures to the clothes which will have to be removed. 

Darker-than-his grey eyes fall on him and the second-born son breathes out, "Okay."

It may seem odd for a friend to see the other in such full detail, but knowing where you're coming from and where you're in can help shape the path, "Savoir d'où l'on vient et où l'on se trouve peut aider à dessiner la suite du chemin." He tells Charles, and for once, the other is too nervous to even ask.

Remy draws him in fine lines, all accurate and delicate, and then they sit together and discuss which bits need more work. 

He teaches Charles to walk, up and down the stairs. Up and down, down and up, over and over until his legs feel like jelly. 

Yet his friend is still inclined to eating, is being watched, and one day it just comes to him.

"Eat half of what you're given." That's better than eating all of it, "To start with. And then eat half of that. Basically just don't ever finish." 

"And throw the rest of it out in the lake?"

"Sometimes." Remy knows Charles is inclined to help the poor, so that day he laughs as he sprinkles paint over his friend's form with a brush too old: "What you leave on your plate is not thrown out anyway, so what's the harm in a little leftover?" 

"Right." 

"Oh, and write about it." At that, the second child perks up. Remy has been doing a lot of thinking. "Keep track of what you eat, what you don't, how long it's been — you love that journal of yours, don't you? Make it useful."

The advice is taken to heart, as he knows it will be. Queen Isadora is gone, prince Eric hates them, and king Richard is too distant. There is Charles' little crush, the knight, but he's called elsewhere by duty. 

There's no one else to listen to. 

One day, he goes: "Say, Cha'lie. Why don't we play a game?" 

Remy recites what the priest has told him to the nobleman as explanation. Neither of them are ever going to get married, so he assumes giving in to instincts has less limitations. There's nothing to wait or hold out for, so why should they wait at all? Charles does want to wait until Killian comes back, but that's silly and stupid, they're bored now, and he tells him _if you play this little game with me, you'll be more than ready for him when he does._

Because experience is the best teacher, and competition is a great motivator. Remy won one in order to become the royal artist. Maybe one of them can become something through this, too. It's better than lacking the will to do almost anything at all. 

Plus, it is just picking a target. Whoever gets their heart first was the winner, whoever can steal a man from the other is a winner. They're promiscuous, but they're careful, and Remy tells Charles to _only ever take._

"How..." The prince is panting, one time, from walking the stairs to the point they have to lie on them to recover. "How do you know? That being taken... Hurts?" Realising how silly that sounds, Charles amends: "Who?"

Remy has neither qualms nor shame and he answers: "Your brother."

Charles is confused, and surprised, but he doesn't explain, and they don't often discuss the younger prince's brother. 

Eric was born to rule. He is just like Richard. 

It was not Richard who brought Canpous peace. 

Killian comes back around the time Charles gets elected the next king by order of blood, for taking after his mother who was originally a Windsor while king Richard wasn't.

It's all a little dizzying, and a little lonely, and it has been a while since he's needed to speak to Charles in the tone that warrants his breaks into French. 

The rules are loose, here, in a country run by a family who won that right through a long fight without dropping blood, a family whose choices were blessed by the people's God.

Charles has told him little of the history, but he does explain the surname Windsor as meaning _lake with a windlass_ and how it relates to their castle being called the Updraught Accord with visible pride.

They have parties, the two of them.

Eating, and talking. The following morning, it's all back to normal. The books Remy has say _binge_ but he never teaches Charles that word, though he teaches him _purge_ and teaches him how to. There is a recipe he found — there is a lot to be found if you just go looking for it — and soon his paint cabinet is full of small, nice perfume vials containing a foul liquid that can bring up the largest of banquets and leave one burning and feeling empty.

Charles is starting to like feeling empty.

On the nights he's away with Killian — Killian who Remy can't touch or chase, Killian who is not part of their game — Remy eats on his own. 

He goes through fruit, through leftovers, through tomorrow's breakfast, and he is glad to be just invisible enough.

It's just so ironic that Charles would get a grip on his control when Remy's falters, but Remy's role is to help and not to be helped.

So he doesn't eat in front of his Cha'lie almost ever anymore, and he is still smaller.

When he's alone at night, he thinks back to their conversations as he goes through whatever the kitchen has to offer, and he cries, lets his emotions out where no one can see them. 

He thinks of how Charles had told him, "A ship was all I could do." And Mallory hadn't known that word, but Remy can recognise he came here not on a boat. "I asked my father, _at least a fleet_ but that was just too silly and foolish and if they hadn't mistimed the second one, you probably wouldn't even be here."

And the prince also asked him about how settling in had gone as he had been absent at the time due to one duty or another, mostly frolicking away with Isadora and Killian between lessons, of which he despised many but attended all. 

Back then, Remy told him, "Peace is boring" and he has never once stopped to think of what Charles could possibly make of that. He told him to stop going to lessons he didn't like, told him so many things, talked so much that he could only truly recall being quiet at the sound of his friend's lyre.

If there is one thing Charles is, it's passionate. He slaves away on the strings until his fingers bear the tiniest of cuts, red like Remy's paint, and he never stops trying to make the painter understand more about his past, lets him know how it was not gold but an undone betrothal which brought war-red to Polaris, even if he does so whilst wondering about and seeking advice on his own betrothal to his cousin Victoria. 

Remy tells him to break it off and Charles shows him the ring he was given by Killian. 

On one such lonely night, the kings of the west have come to visit, to properly meet the knight, and Charles hates them, so there are a lot of leftovers. 

Then, he abruptly remembers, in the middle of devouring a pie, how winter's arrival had prompted him to tell Charles a good self-punishment for eating too much could be standing out in the cold, and that time he goes out to the lake instead of to the bathrooms. 

He cries harder, screams and is not heard, thinks of Eric and Charles and being Mallory, thinks of Polaris and wars and the letters tucked away in his drawer letting him know his family are dead. 

He is hurting. Is heavier. Catches a cold that numbs his tastebuds for a week. 

Peace is not boring. Not in the way he implied. But it's still not in the blood of someone come from the country which sacrificed their people in the name of love.

* * *

By the time he meets Killian, his mind has settled somewhat. He greets Charles with a kiss as it feels like he always has, watches the crown prince embarrass himself by saying too much about nude sketches that he's just now learning have been used for purposes beyond their original intent, and paints a portrait of their little family — Charles, Killian, and the little pagan girl, Mini. 

She will convert to Canopus' God as Remy has, he knows, because their God is true and fair, and Remy goes to confession and pays penance for leading Charles astray, because he was wrong and the prince should have waited, and him and Killian are getting married. 

Though he is told he was right about everything, he tries his luck with Killian and that couldn't have felt more wrong, even though the knight says no like he expected. He is left more alone than ever.

It's a bit after that when he remembers how only important people had surnames back in his country of origin. The last of his brothers dies — his connection to the royal family of Canopus puts enough political importance on his roots that he gets a notice, but there won't be any more after this one, he knows, and he calls for an audience with king Charles and becomes Remy of Polaris.

From there, it's only a short time until the clock runs out.

The recently married royal couple travel together. Remy keeps their daughter company, lets her draw and paint with the expensive materials Mallory had wished for, and tells her light-hearted stories of a different life in what feels like a different world. 

Mini is also keen to play with the children of servants and, perhaps due to her own origins as an abandoned child who was taken in after an attempt to steal food from the castle, no one objects. 

He gets a call one day that puts to good use the secret code he and Charles came up with mostly out of boredom. 

Everyone of relevance knows his friend is consciously resorting to desperate measures. Just like he's read about, they think he's sick and are trying to make him stop. Remy panics, but keeps his voice calm, says what he needs to say though through seemingly abstract words. When they hang up, he puts a small vial in his inner pocket and goes into the empty kitchens. 

After their honeymoon, Killian is injured and Charles comes back to him. 

There is a lot that goes on for the now king in-between, but by then Remy is less selfish, and though Cha'lie only comes to him when he's hurt, Remy is sick of watching him cry.

For the weeks they spend together from then, all he does is laugh and try to encourage, but it doesn't seem like the other is ready to let go on his own, despite now knowing the damage Remy's words have caused. He's trying to help him, but the painter is past that. He's so tired. Charles can eat, he can have Killian, and he doesn't need someone to give him the kind of advice Remy only knows how to provide anymore. 

He remembers telling him his secret, that Remy wasn't always his name, but he never says _Mallory_ in Charles' presence. 

And he has told him many things, but above all he remembers _l_ _a vie est un grand drame, il faut bien le jouer; mais ce qu'il faut surtout, c'est bien le dénouer_ and _d_ _ans la vie on ne fait pas ce que l'on veut mais on est responsable de ce que l'on est._

The words said by his mother and taken to heart.

 _Life is a great drama, you have to play it well; but what is needed above all is to unravel it_ , and _i n life you don't do what you want but you are responsible for who you are_.

A few years back, he was still trying to figure out who Remy was, and he realises now since the last summer he hasn't grown any more certain. 

Their friendship lasts but a year among those he has spent here, and the culmination point has them standing on a balcony, giggling over strawberries they really don't want to eat, talking life and death as though they don't matter at all.

When Remy's first brother died, he told Charles in the face of death, we understand life better.

**_En face de la mort, on comprend mieux la vie._ **

It doesn't matter what's boring or not, if they're empty or hurting, if Eric hates them, if Isadora is dead and if God will never forgive him.

He just wants Cha'lie to understand. 

Though, he's not all that selfless, and if he can take him with...

"Say, Cha'lie... You ever wonder what it's like to fly?"

It's a stupid question; even in Eric's poem, humans couldn't fly really. 

His odd request of _fly with me_ is denied, but he still wonders what it feels like as he eludes Charles' desperate grasp and ignores the dizziness and numbness from not eating enough, the ache from throwing up too often, the weight of secrets too many. 

No one other than the one person who genuinely cares about his destiny will probably ever know, but-

His foot doesn't slip; he flies.

The last words he tells Cha'lie mean that a door can be either opened or shut. 

"Il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermée."

Between life and death, there is only one choice for them, and Charles has to choose for himself just as Remy has already done.

Neither can decide for the other. 

Whatever happens from here on out, it will all have to be Charles' own battle. 

His life is a long story, but he truly has to wonder if it's one worth telling, if he's worth anything at all. 

His eyes see the prince who is no longer, the prince who came back, the friend he is leaving and will not see grow into the person he was meant to be before the artist came along with a wounded heart and a desire to help.

Charles gets smaller and farther so quick as he plummets. 

For a playful child who had balanced on almost any surface and always successfully, it's interesting that the very final thing Remy ever knows is what it's like to fall. 

Not that it matters, now. Good thing he wasn't the one with the journal. His vision of the world will live on in his paintings, but not a single word can be written down before he reaches the ground. They will only ever be known by ears too attentive, and then, like his entire being, they will crack too weak under the weight of time, and disappear off to where they belong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I have done no proofreading, but... Details I didn't get to include in the story:  
> ・The reason why Remy "survived the ocean" and didn't survive this whole friendship thing was something I mentioned in Target Fixation. Basically, he was the only one who didn't panic back when the ship sunk, and he was the only one who panicked during the time he tried to teach Charles things.  
> ・Unnamed Enemy Kingdom and Canopus are neighbouring countries, hence Charles' awareness of the situation  
> ・Canopus was always meant to vaguely represent England (kinda like Albion), but Polaris does not represent France or Canada or any existing country  
> ・The religion in Canopus (though it's labelled as Christianity) includes the belief that man is not born evil, but corrupted, therefore true instincts can't be wrong  
> ・All of the French in this (and in Polaris) exists due to Remy (and Mallory) being names of French origins. So a whim  
> ・Remy was the name of the referenced first boy who Mallory kissed, but he wasn't really as important a person to the story as it might have seemed if I snuck that in, it really was just random selective memory from a near-drowning victim and Remy himself was never even conscious of it  
> ・Remy had 3 older brothers, all with names indicating good fortune. His parents named him Mallory because he was an unplanned pregnancy at a time of famine, but they regretted that choice and always fondly called him Caterpillar in reference to his tendency to sleep in blanket cocoons growing up  
> ・The pot that held the strawberries in the last scene is the same as the picnic one, and Charles throws it down and breaks it after Remy's death  
> ・Eric and Charles' hair colour allowed Remy to fall back in love with golden-yellow, which you will see a bit of in the next chapter (Charles' journal entry about his best friend's death, which is ready but won't be posted probably for a week)
> 
> Bonus trivia:  
> ・The two italic "rough" are both indicative of incoming misfortune  
> ・Despite "biography" being technically more accurate to what this is, I named it memoir because I think it's a French word  
> ・Charles loves sweets, but thinks he hates them and can't stand the taste when he gets to thinking too much about Remy  
> ・A lot of Remy's teachings in this have been referenced by Charles in speech or narration in my rp with Max Moon
> 
> Remy was not a main character in this rp, so that's why this story is available here. I had to write this alone on here as all characters besides Killian are mine. I couldn't very well rp all of them, so
> 
> Thank you for giving this a read!


	2. Aftermath (Charles' journal entry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today, Remy died.

Today, Remy died. He finally succumbed to the weight of a faltering mind. When I think back to when I truly met Remy, I remember he looked hurt.

He had been crying so much his eyes were red. That was the first colour I ever associated with him, and it is also, to me, the colour of his departure. Remy always managed to make me feel like I was not alone. We would hold hands and skip down the hallways, and no one could ever figure out where we were when we didn't want to be found, but they had to have known we were together.

There is a lot that's not known, though. Remy was the royal artist. He was also a war refugee, and he was my best friend. He came fully into my life shortly after my mother's death, at a time when I felt broken and alone, and had just lost my brother's approval. What I understand a lot better now, is that Remy had lost a lot too, and these losses probably affected him more than he let on. I truly did always have more than Remy. More than most people ever will.

I had no mother and a brother who didn't love me, but Remy had no one, and though he was brought here out of kindness, it was because he also didn't have a home.

So I gave Remy all that I could give.

I knew him to share a lot of the same views as me - the same thoughts, feelings, struggles and beliefs - in fact, we even shared an illness, but I can't honestly say that I truly knew Remy, or that he knew me. In spite of that, I have loved him.

I love the war refugee who said peace is boring, that loved yellow - yellow like my hair, he said.

I love someone who wanted to die.

And I will mourn him, even if I'm the only one. Because today, Remy asked me to fly with him, and in doing so, he taught me that while a lot of things are done to us or decided for us... While there's so much we can't help, like where we're born and into what position, with how much power and into what family, and all the many different things which happen to cause us hurt... Sometimes people do get a choice, however small.

So, to my dear friend Remy, I say: Goodbye.

My memory of you won't fade.

My love for you won't fade.

I will forever miss you.

Even so, I choose to live, and I choose to love.

But above all, I choose to value the fact that I can still make these choices, and that I ever had you in my life in the first place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tah-dah!  
> "Today, Remy died"  
> "faltering mind"  
> "he looked hurt"   
> "red"  
> and  
> "Remy always managed to make me feel..."  
> were mentioned in my rp with Max Moon, in that order.


End file.
